The farmhouse lingers, though averse to square With the new city street it has to wear A number in. But what about the brook That held the house as in an elbow-crook? I ask as one who knew the brook, its strength And impulse, having dipped a finger length And made it leap my knuckle, having tossed A flower to try its currents where they crossed. The meadow grass could be cemented down From growing under pavements of a town; The apple trees be sent to hearth-stone flame. Is water wood to serve a brook the same? How else dispose of an immortal force No longer needed? Staunch it at its source With cinder loads dumped down? The brook was thrown Deep in a sewer dungeon under stone In fetid darkness still to live and run -- And all for nothing it had ever done Except forget to go in fear perhaps. No one would know except for ancient maps That such a brook ran water. But I wonder If from its being kept forever under These thoughts may not have risen that so keep This new-built city from both work and sleep. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE BAT by CHARLES LUTWIDGE DODGSON THE COURTSHIP OF THE YONGHY-BONGHY-BO by EDWARD LEAR TWO LIVES: CONCLUSION. INDIAN SUMMER by WILLIAM ELLERY LEONARD POCAHONTAS by GEORGE POPE MORRIS BREAK OF DAY IN THE TRENCHES by ISAAC ROSENBERG SPANIARDS' GRAVES AT THE ISLES OF SHOALS by CELIA LEIGHTON THAXTER SORCERY by THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH |